Straight to Gay: How a Stroke turned one man Gay

by Chris Birch

  She had been studying me for the last minute from her chair, I looked up and met her gaze. She looked disappointed, as if she had been searching for something in me that wasn’t there.

  The physiotherapy appointment went well and I was given the all clear to go back to work, the physical signs of the stroke had all but subsided. But for some reason it felt like something else had altered in me, something that wasn’t going to just fit back into place.

  The following day, in our sitting room at home, Mum made a familiar plea.

  'I just think you should go out with your friends,' she said, from the other end of the sofa.

  I ignored her and concentrated on the cereal advert on the TV instead, watching the cartoon characters bounce around the screen.

  'You must miss them,' she said.

  It was the same tired script that she repeated every few days.

  'I’m watching this,' I said, defensively and gestured towards the TV.

  Mum fell silent so I kept my eyes fixed on the screen in the hope she would drop the subject.

  Since the diagnosis the doctor had prescribed me some new painkillers which seemed to be working. I was feeling better and so Mum had been nagging me to start going out more. I knew that it wasn’t just because she wanted me to see friends. Mum wanted some time to herself. I couldn’t blame her, she had been my personal nurse and maid since the accident and three months of being at my side had put a strain on our relationship. I could hear in her voice that her patience had been exhausted and could tell by her sighs that she had begun to begrudge spending every waking hour with me.

  'You used to always be out of the house doing something,' Mum said, trying to get my attention.

  I continued to stare at the TV. An old man in a white panama hat and white linen suit was standing by the side of The River Nile, in Egypt, I recognised the surroundings from when I had been on holiday there with Dad.

  'This is where the river starts its struggle to make it to The Nile,' the presenter explained in a posh accent.

  The screen switched to an illustration, blue water lines representing rivers wiggled around trying to make their way to the thick navy shape that was The Nile. It made me think of how the specialist had described my brain after I had been diagnosed. I thought back to the white room of the hospital. He had said that after the blood supply was cut off to my brain the tiny blood vessels had to make a new route to get to my brain because the old one didn’t work. He had told me that it had changed the way my brain was wired, opening up new areas that were previously closed off. I had nodded when he had told me but it was only now that I started to understand what he meant. The voice on the TV brought me back into the present, he was standing next to another section of The Nile.

  'And so, now the seasons have changed, the river is high again, back to it’s normal, powerful self,' the man chirped, happily, then the camera zoomed in on the water.

  Back to it’s normal self, I pondered those words.

  That night there was a knock at the door, Mum nervously looked up at me from her newspaper.

  'Ooh I wonder who that could be?' she said, her voice was wooden.

  She’s invited someone round, I realised and watched her move towards the door.

  There were muffled voices coming from the hallway, I tried to steel myself and prepare for company, I wished I had time to change out of my jogging bottoms.

  ‘Hello.’

  A big booming voice entered the room, I heard it before I saw who it belonged to.

  I was met with a young male face, his thin frame dressed in jeans and a bright yellow t-shirt.

  'He’s popped in to say hello, it’s a lovely surprise, isn’t it?' Mum said.

  Her voice made her sound like a bad actor who hadn’t rehearsed their lines.

  'Alright, mate?'

  The man, who looked about my age, sat next to me on the sofa.

  His face looked familiar but his name wasn’t coming to me, must be an old friend who you haven’t seen for a while, I told myself.

  'How are you feeling now?' he continued.

  Aware I hadn’t yet spoken I quickly responded.

  'Yeah, on the mend, we know what it is now..' I started but before I could finish he stepped in.

  'A stroke, right? Your mum told me and the rest of the lads.’

  Mum had told him? And the lads. Who were the lads?

  My questions were forgotten as I noticed the man awkwardly playing with a bit of thread hanging loose from his jeans.

  'We’ve been asking your mum about you...we’ve been erm, well we’ve been

  worried...and that,' he finally said.

  He was still awkwardly playing with the thread.

  It was clear he cared about me but he was making me feel uncomfortable, I just wanted him out of the room. Noticing my unease Mum swiftly changed the subject.

  'Paul, how’s your Mum?' she asked.

  Paul, that must be his name then, I realised.

  'Yeah not too bad, we were at the rugby club yesterday watching the game,' he

  answered Mum’s question whilst continuing to stare at me. I felt like an insect being inspected by a small child before they picked it apart.

  'You should have come down Chris, it’s not like you to miss the Rugby.’

  It sounded more like an allegation than an invitation.

  'Yeah, I was watching a film, didn’t fancy it,' I said.

  'Ahh right, what film?'

  His questions were stifling me, it felt as if there was a correct answer but I didn’t know what it was.

  'Can’t remember what it was called, one of those old black and white ones, it was really good.’

  His face crumpled, he look puzzled, it was clear that he didn’t like my answer.

  'What did ya do that for?’

  Taken aback I didn’t answer.

  'Can tell he’s had a knock on the head, can’t you?’

  He looked at Mum and laughed.

  I didn’t understand why what I said was strange but Mum seemed to be laughing along with him.

  'You would never have watched that crap before,' he tutted.

  Nobody spoke for a few moments.

  'Well, Chris isn’t quite himself at the moment,' Mum said, before giving him

  a knowing look.

  There it was again. Why wasn’t I myself? Because I had watched that film? It was starting to feel like everyone else was in on some big secret about me. They all seemed to be in agreement that something about me was wrong. Every part of me wanted to get up, shut the door, go upstairs and leave them both behind me but common decency told me I had to wait it out. Finally, probably feeling as uncomfortable as I did, Paul stood up, shook my hand and left the room.

  Mum followed him to the front door, I struggled to try and decipher their hushed whispers and then heard the front door close.

  'That was nice wasn’t it?' Mum smiled before sitting down.

  It was the first of many surprise visits, where I would be taken hostage by unfamiliar faces that claimed to have just, ‘popped by,’ but were clearly invited by my mother. Each time, despite filling the sitting room with people who had once, allegedly, meant something to me, I would end up feeling completely alone. I didn’t seem to like any of my friends anymore and wasn’t interested in what they spoke about, in fact, I couldn’t wait for them to leave. I’m just grumpy because of the stroke, I told myself.

  When Paul arrived at the house the next day and ask me to take a spin in his new car I went against every instinct in my body and agreed to go along.

  'Knew you wouldn’t miss out on a chance for a ride in this,' Paul winked.

  He patted one hand on the bonnet of a grey sports car.

  'Is this new then?' I asked.

  'Yeah mate, it’s the car I’ve been saving for.’

  He smiled and wiped off an imaginary mark from the paintwork

  I desperately searched my mind for something to talk about but was worried I would say the wrong thing again
.

  'What is it then?' I said, gesturing to the car.

  There it was, that frown I had seen so many times before on Mum’s face, a mix of shock and confusion.

  'What do you mean what is it? It’s an MG, you love these cars, we used to check

  them out at the car garage down the road,' Paul said.

  By now Paul’s frown had turned into a frozen look of worry. I had no idea what he was talking about, I didn’t recognise the car but to avoid any more awkwardness I just agreed.

  'Oh yeah, I love these cars,' I blurted and tried to feign enthusiasm.

  We got in the car and did a lap of the town, all the while Paul was rattling on. He talked about people I didn’t remember and things I wasn’t interested in, all I wanted to do was go home, shut the front door and be on my own.

  'I think I’ve got a headache coming on,' I lied.

  I laid my head in my hands so it seemed more believable.

  'Oh mate. Want me to take you home?' he offered.

  He sounded concerned. He took his eyes off the road, glanced at me and gave me a sympathetic half smile. I instantly felt terrible, it was clear he was concerned about me but I didn’t feel anything at all towards him.

  'Yeah, I think I should,' I sighed and tried to hide my relief.

  We made the journey home in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Maybe he’s changed since I got ill? Maybe he’s just become less interesting, I reasoned. There had to be a logical explanation for why I suddenly felt uncomfortable and bored around someone who was apparently one of my closest friends.

  'Alright, well, maybe come to the pub with us one night this week, everyone

  would love to see you,' Paul said, as he pulled up outside my house.

  I had already opened the passenger door and got out of the car when I heard his offer.

  'Yeah, maybe,' I shouted over my shoulder and gave him a wave goodbye.

  I knew I didn’t sound very sincere but I didn’t really care, I just wanted to get inside the house and away from the confusion of being with Paul.

  'Alright Love? Have a nice time?' Mum said, she had greeted me at the front door.

  I pushed past her and considered what to say, whether to tell her the truth, or, what she wanted to hear.

  'Erm, it’s was ok.’

  'You’ve got your holiday to Turkey coming up next week,' she grinned.

  Holiday? My mind drew a blank, noticing the silence Mum carried on talking.

  'You know, you booked it before the stroke, with the lads, like the one you went on last year.’

  'Oh you’ll have a great time, you always do,' she added.

  Mum had mentioned the holiday a few times before but not in the mood to talk, I had just pretended I hadn’t heard her. I had hoped I would be more enthusiastic by the time the holiday came around

  'I don’t want to go,' I said.

  'Why, have you had a falling out with one of the boys?' she asked with a frown.

  I searched my memory, I didn’t think I had.

  'No, I just don’t want to, I can’t explain why,' I said.

  'Well you’ve already paid love, would be a shame to waste that money and

  you’ve booked the time off work. You probably need a holiday after everything you’ve been through.’

  Maybe a holiday is what I need, I reasoned, and if I usually enjoy it then I’m sure I will this time.

  The following week, bags packed, I was picked up by Paul and we drove to the airport together with the other lads. They were in high spirits.

  'This is going to be ace,' Paul said.

  'I’m going to pull so many girls,' another voice added.

  As their chatter boomed around the car I shrank into the background. We weren’t even on the flight yet and I already desperately wanted to go home.

  I spent the rest of the car journey and the flight trying to blend into the background, letting the boys speak amongst themselves. I even pretended to fall asleep on the plane, closing my eyes so that they would stop directing questions at me. If I pretended to be asleep then they wouldn’t expect me to respond.

  The flight landed at 9pm local time and within an hour we had got to the hotel, dumped our bags and the boys were ready to go out. We met in the hotel lobby, as they walked towards me it struck me how similar they were dressed. It was like they had been given a uniform, wearing the same pale blue jeans, flip flops and brightly coloured polo shirts.

  'Let's start as we mean to go on lads,' my friend, who I had just realised was called Steven, jeered.

  The rest of the boys roared back loudly and lifted their fists in the air, like a crowd at a bullfight they were riled up and buzzing with testosterone. I looked at the other guests in the hotel, a young couple, family of four and two women glanced back at me with horrified expressions. So, I took a step back, as if to create an imaginary barrier between my so called friends and me, in the hope strangers wouldn’t think I was with them.

  What’s happened to these guys? Why are they behaving like that? How am I

  going to cope for the next week? Questions came, one after the other and already tired, I felt myself getting overwhelmed. It didn’t make sense, why was I friends with these guys?

  'Come on Birchy,' Steven called.

  He had noticed my distance from the gang and so pulled me into the crowd and the lads closed in around me, like a makeshift rugby scrum, then bounced up and down. My body tensed up, I felt uncomfortable but knew if I shrugged them off it would seem rude.

  Steven picked up on my tension.

  'What’s up mate?' he asked before pausing, mid jump on the spot.

  'Ah you know, just tired,' I sighed with a smile and pulled his arm off me.

  'Oh sorry mate….the stroke yeah….of course you’re tired,' he mumbled.

  The boys had moved back to the bar and were quickly making their way through shots of alcohol.

  '1-2-3 GOOOO,’ a voice bellowed, then their arms went up as they swallowed another.

  ’You would normally be up there showing them how it’s done,' Steven laughed.

  ‘R-r-really?'

  The idea horrified me.

  Steven looked me over, as if I were a stranger and he was seeing me for the first time, he went to say something then stopped himself. Instead, he gave me a pat on the back and walked over to the other guys.

  I spent that night out like I spent the rest of the holiday, trying to keep a low profile and using the stroke as an excuse to go to bed early. The other lads seemed puzzled by me, my behaviour was baffling them but the feeling was mutual. I couldn’t wait for the holiday to be over, it felt like one long test that I was failing, miserably.

  When I got back from Turkey, Mum greeted me at the front door with a big smile, she looked different, the grey bags under her eyes had lifted, she looked well rested. I could see that my holiday had also been a welcome break for her.

  'Why don’t we get something nice for tea, to celebrate you getting back to normal?' she suggested and stroked my arm.

  Back to normal, there it was again. I couldn’t be bothered with an argument, it felt like I was constantly losing my temper, so I swallowed my frustration at her words.

  'Yeah, ok, what were you thinking?'

  'Let’s get your favourite, kebab and chips,' she said.

  My mind conjured up an image, it sounded disgusting, oily and bland, was that really my favourite?

  'Alright,' I conceded.

  I assumed I was just feeling a bit tired, if it’s my favourite I’m sure I will enjoy it when it’s put in front of me, I thought.

  Mum drove to the takeaway shop and ten minutes later, sat on a tray in front of me, was a white pitta bread with brown scraps of meat spilling out of it. The meat looked dry but at the same time everything on the plate, including the limp salad and mountain of chips, was covered in a greasy sheen like an oil slick. I picked up my knife and fork, I’m sure it tastes better than it looks, I thought. But before I had even taken a bite I wa
s met with the pungent stench, a fusty smell with a peppery after kick. I cut off a bit of meat and pita bread and took a pensive bite. The texture was so rubbery it felt like I was chewing an elastic band, the strong flavours of spice and garlic overpowered my tastebuds and made me want to sneeze. I took a big sip of water to help me swallow the lump and wash away the taste.

  'Bet you’ve missed those,' Mum winked.

  'I really liked these?’

  'What do you mean Chris, you know you do, you love them!'

  It were as if I had questioned whether the earth was round.

  'You and your friends used to queue up outside the kebab shop on your way home after a night out, I’d find the leftovers on the kitchen table in the morning.’

  From the tone in mum’s voice you would think she was still slightly annoyed about me making a mess. I pushed the food in front of me around on the plate.

  'Stick the telly on then,' Mum suggested.

  'What do you want to watch?' I asked.

  I pressed on the remote control. As I flicked through channels it landed on a middle-aged man standing next to a sports car.

  'Now, this is every man’s dream, to race around Italy in a Ferrari…' the voice bragged.

  He looked like an idiot, with no interest in watching the programme I flicked to the next channel.

  'What you doing?' Mum asked.

  I froze. I was doing something wrong again.

  'You love this programme, Chris.’

  'Do I?'

  'You used to watch it every week, you know, I always go out the room because I hate that man.’

  'Well, I don’t really fancy watching it now.’

  'Why?'

  'Erm, I just don’t.’

  'You don’t like this anymore?' Mum wouldn’t drop it.

  'I don’t think I do, no, maybe the programme has changed since I used to watch it,' I reasoned.

  'You must do, you loved it before, you would watch it every week….’

  Frustration boiled up inside me, since I had the stroke everyone was behaving so strangely, telling me I liked things I didn’t like, suggesting we do things I didn’t enjoy. It made me feel like I had been plonked into someone else’s life, as if my brain had been put in someone else’s body. Everything around me had apparently stayed the same, my family, friends, home, Bargoed, so perhaps it was me that had changed.